


Engineers tend to lead boring lives....

by boogieshoes



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: 3K Round-up Challenge, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:43:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boogieshoes/pseuds/boogieshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is undercover.   Something unexpected happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this is not the life you're looking for...

**Author's Note:**

> Someone made a comment to me once that the 7 as engineers would be kind of exciting. I respectfully disagree, because as an engineer myself, as someone who has studied the exciting fields of rockets, engines, and orbital mechanics, I can honestly tell you that my work is as awesome as it's unexciting. Most engineering jobs do not come with regular shots of adrenaline, and for the most part, engineers are fine with that. And face it, most engineers aren't the type to jump out of perfectly good airplanes. If they are, that's a hobby.
> 
> Then my bosses sent me something that reminded me the world is changing, and I came up with this...

"Don't, Chris, you can't!"  Mags hissed.

 

Chris whipped his head to look across the aisle to where the woman was glaring at him from where she crouched awkwardly by her desk chair.  "Here is not there, now is not then - we need you to back up our retreat, because _we_ sure as hell can't back up _your_ fight. None of us are trained for it!"

 

She was right, Chris knew it.  Still, he hesitated as the gun below them boomed out again... and again.  All his training and instincts roared at him to stop the shooter on the floor below them.  He looked over his team - Jim Wu,  mid-40s, going gray, 2 daughters in high school, wife running the downtown book club; Simon Lastel, early 30s, young wife just gave birth to their second son; Luke Schmidt, late 40s, married late in life, two young kids of his own; and Mags, Magaret Kneidermeyer, single, no kids, looking at her 40th birthday with humor and horror both.  None of them had any military experience.  All of them were typical in one fashion or another of the rest of is co-workers in this undercover stint. 

 

He couldn't risk them, Mags was right.  All the people in the building were the same, just trying to make a life and make their product - fan blade assemblies for turbine engines - better, safer, more efficient.  This was not a job people worked out for.   Oh, there were people who worked out here, who took martial arts as a hobby, and had military experience, either in the US or foreign armies.  But just as many were past their physical prime, like Doug the wiring harness guy.  Or had disabilities like Rick Johns, who'd had his foot removed in a car accident.  Or they were like Mags, who by her own admission would rather get her teeth pulled than work out.

 

Finally, he nodded, and scuttled over to join Mags, Jim, Luke, and Simon.  "Come on," he whispered on a breath, "exit route is down the back stairs and out the cafeteria."

 

"No," Mags said, "Can't you hear it?  Shooter's working front to back.  If we go out the fire-stairs in the front, we should avoid him."  They all strained to hear, and the shooter's gun boomed again.  A large-bore shotgun, Chris thought. 

 

"She's right about the shooter," Luke said, "but it'd be faster to get out the back."

 

"What about the other folks?  Simon's a first aid captain."

 

Simon shook his head.  "Your call, I'll get the first aid kit."  Simon did an admirable slink over to the printers, a little blocked off area that also had the first aid and defib kits.

 

"Jim?"  One thing Chris had learned over the months, these guys were a team.  Not as close as his own team, but they worked well together, listening to each other's strengths and bolstering each other's weaknesses.  

 

"Forward," Jim said in his soft voice, eyebrows lowered in worry. 

 

"Right,"  Chris said, watching Simon duck reflexively two cubes down as the gun below boomed again.  "We'll grab the others as we go, and make sure everyone gets downstairs.  Mags, can you make sure no one's left in the bathrooms on this side?"  The bathrooms closest to them were all ladies' bathrooms.

 

Mags nodded .  She did her own slinky crab-walk up the aisle, not as graceful as Simon, but quick enough, and surprisingly silent, except for the soft shush of her clothes.

 

(end ficlet 1)


	2. here, have a cliff-hanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok, next piece of story. they're still getting off the second floor.

They worked their way up the second floor, row by row, checking cubicles. Most of the engineers left under their own steam, but they gathered a few here and there who'd been too scared to come out of their offices on their own. Mags displayed a surprising amount of sympathy, working gently but firmly to chivy the more timid coworkers into leaving. The men were quietly efficient, checking each cubicle and announcing each aisle clear with a thumb's-up. Chris was amused to note that the majority of the office personnel were far more pragmatic than he expected. The only noise had been a few gasps of surprise when the guy downstairs had started shooting. Purses and jackets were grabbed on the way out the door. College textbooks occasionally came along, but were more often left with a goodbye wince. Those textbooks were expensive, Chris knew, and worth every penny. But all in all, it was one of the most orderly evacuations Chris had ever experienced.

The stairs in the front would be a problem. The reception area was all glass, and the stairs from reception to the second floor could easily be seen from the cubicle farm on the first floor. They'd have to hope the shooter had moved into the back hall where the training rooms were.

Hope was a poor substitute for intelligence.

People were gathering in the upper vestibule near the elevator, and a low murmur of discussion rose. He was getting ready to take command when someone went over the railing.

"It's just Thai," Luke hissed, coming close. "The little spider monkey went over the railing to check if that bastard is visible." At Chris's frown, he added, "Thai's strong, martial arts and all that. He can climb back up, and we'll help if he can't quite get it on his own."

"Where are you two going?" Luke and Jim were both heading back into the cleared cubicles.

"To get some mirrors," Luke said. "We'll set up a visual relay so we have advanced warning if the bastard turns around and comes back up the floor."

He must have looked startled because Luke grinned at him. "You're in nerd-heaven, man. What we've got here is a chance to prove all those D&D games weren't for nothing!"

It wasn't more than a minute before the relay was in place. Another minute and the crowd in the vestibule was thinning rapidly as the more able-bodied went down the stairs and darted out the front door as quickly as possible. Precious minutes that the shooter was using to open doors and look for more people to kill. Any minute he'd be in the small cafeteria at the end of the building, and through that room was the back stairs.

It felt like forever, but soon there were only three people other than Simon in the vestibule: Stephen and Doris, both with blown knees and dependent on canes to walk, and Rick, with the missing foot. None of them would be able to navigate the stairs safely. They'd have to call the elevator - but the ding of the elevator call could be heard all across the building. It was going to be a tricky bit of timing to get the elevator up to the second floor and down again without the shooter realizing it.

And Mags was behind him, still trying to get young Jacob out of his cubicle. Jake was a quivering wreck, scared and ashamed and angry over it all at the same time. Just out of college, in his first job, Jake didn't have the life experience just yet to understand that it was perfectly normal to be scared witless when your life was in danger. To understand that he wasn't expected to keep cool and collected in a situation he couldn't have anticipated, and wasn't really trained for. To understand that he didn't have to 'be a man' here, he just had to stay safe.

It was taking a long time to talk him down, but Chris had faith. His team kept surprising him with their flexibility, and he was inordinately proud of these people he'd only known a few months.

Finally, Simon received the signal from Luke below: the shooter was in the back stairwell. The call button was punched. Mags guided Jacob up to the front.

And the shooter burst out of the back stairwell and unloaded the rifle in their direction with a bellow of rage.


	3. let's get these guys off the floor... mostly

Instinctively, they all ducked.

Mags slipped and fell heavily on something wet, and even Simon, the furthest away from them, heard the sickening crack as her knees hit the floor. She hissed through teeth clenched in agony, completely frozen for that critical moment.

Simon started back to help her, help her get up and get up and maybe get into the elevator.

"Simon!" Chris hissed, just as Mags said in a low, urgent voice, "Go!"

Simon hesitated - Mags surely needed some kind of first aid.

"Go," she said again. "Get them out of here. I'm not going anywhere at the moment. Knees -"

Chris nodded, and turned, giving Jacob a gentle push into Simon's arms. "I'll stay here. You make sure everyone's out and safe." At his continuing pause, he added, "It's important Simon. They need you out there."

The gun boomed again, and again, everyone flinched. "Right," Simon said, and, taking a firm grip on Jacob's arm, hustled to the elevator where Steven, Doris, and Rick had kept the door open. Chris heaved a sigh of relief as it closed behind them. Now it was just Mags and him, and he had a little bit more flexibility where -

"Where are you going?!' he whispered furiously. Mags had laid down on her side and was pulling herself with her forearms and pushing with her calves in a sidewinder crawl around the cubicle wall, dragging a wide patch of blood - that wet spot had been blood! - with her. She'd paint a path for the shooter right to them. Mags didn't answer, grimly continuing her crawl around to the side closest the upper foyer, then the 'door opening'. She'd already figured out what he just realized now that the urgency of getting potential hostages out safely was fading. That wide blood pool meant someone was bleeding badly. He groaned internally. Shit, not good.

He followed Mags, avoiding the blood smear. He could at least surprise the shooter with someone he didn't expect. He glanced at the nameplate on the cubicle - Kelli Hardway, another college grad on her first job. Kelli was on the floor, Mags leaning over her putting pressure on the bright red stain near her abdomen. Shit shit shit.

"Mags?"

"Still breathing," came the soft report. "Been a long time since first aid classes, but pupils are equal and reactive, breathing doesn't seem too strained. Got to watch that - think the lungs might be able to collapse after a hard knock. Pressure's all I can do for her right now." Mags glanced up briefly, made an obvious effort to meet his eyes to convey her seriousness. " _Now_ would be a good time to go hunting...." With that she tuned him out completely, turning back to the wound before her. She rocked back, unselfconsciously took off her shirt, and balled it up to help apply pressure.

Chris mentally snorted. Mags knew him far too well for someone who had only seen a cover story for a few months. That was neither here nor there. His job right now was to keep the shooter from the girls and to, hopefully, bring the guy around to where he could be taken down easily from outside. He knew the cops had been called, and therefore his own ATF team. But help had been at least five minutes away when the shooter came in. Someone would have called immediately - engineers were such practical personalities he didn't have to worry about that at all - but he wasn't under surveillance back-up for this gig. No one expected him to have physical trouble with a bunch of engineers. So his own ATF team was another couple minutes further out. The police would have a sniper, he was sure, and then there was Tanner on his own team. He hoped they waited for Vin; he'd want Tanner to make this shot.

It had been five minutes for the upper floor to be evacuated. No telling who was still in the lower floor waiting for emergency services. He added that to his job function list as he slid quietly around a cubicle row: Keep the shooter upstairs; Keep the shooter away from Mags and Kelli; Get the shooter in a spot Tanner could take him out. Or take him out himself.

The biggest flaw in his plan was knowing where Tanner was. If they could just get a signal across somehow....


	4. the life of a sharp-shooter

Vin Tanner scanned the mostly glass building with his scope, listening to the chatter in his earpiece. "Anyone know who this guy is?" 

"Negative. Intel's working on it. Could be random."

That was the truth. Vin wasn't even sure Spinnet Technologies was on anybody's radar as a potential target for, well, _anything_. The company made fan blades for jet engines, and employed about 250 assorted engineers, human resource personnel, and a couple of facilities managers who doubled as receptionists. They worked four 9-hour days, and on Fridays, a 4 hour day. The employees mostly sat in their cubicles and did.... whatever it is that engineers did when sitting on their asses for 8 or 9 hours a day. They had a good reputation in engineering circles for quality output, and the industry reports had indicated positive things about environment and efficiency and a bunch of other things Vin had no idea about. What he knew was that the primary attractiveness for the ATF team had nothing to do with Spinnet's products, contacts, or even the employee's hobbies or shopping habits. No, the attractive thing about Spinnet Technologies, is that it was a sister-company of Dynamic Spinworks, whose main products were _also_ fan blades, also for jet engines, but specifically for military jets. 

Military contracts often required clearance of the engineers working on them, and the managers, and the receptionists, and sometimes even of the floor-cleaners. It was because of this aspect that the parent company, Spin Composites, had decided to make two distinct legal entities to handle the differing secrecy requirements of civilian and military contracts. But Dynamic Spinworks and Spinnet Technologies still interacted a lot with each other, trading ideas and information on older, public-access technologies and studies. And they still had a common server engineers from both companies accessed. It archived publications, some material mechanics data and certification documents, certain shared management activities - and the financial records of the company, including the financials and paychecks for the upper echelons of the management.

Six months ago, the State Department had come to the Denver ATF, requesting some help. Although they didn't have proof, the State Department thought that one David Cashel, Vice President of Contracts of Dynamic Spinworks, was selling company secrets and other information, and disguising it under his company pay. That was bad enough, but the information in question was controlled under ITAR - the International Traffic and Arms Regulations laws that controlled the imports and exports of defense-related technologies, services, and information. To prove their theory, they needed access to the company employment records, and to trace the monies in the pay statements. Basically, they needed someone inside who knew how to read the ledgers. Embedding someone was a risky business - they had to hold a high enough job to access the right records without question, but that same position would give them the authority to sign off on something they might not have the necessary training to understand, let alone approve. There weren't many undercover agents in any of the agencies who had degrees in engineering and could read a ledger and, if necessary, trace monies through complicated computer networks.

They hadn't been able to find an agent, but they had lucked out, of sorts, for the position. The lead for the heat-stress team in Dynamic Spinworks' civilian-contract-only sister company, Spinnet Technologies, had fallen and fractured his hip while working on his hobby farm in the mountains, and would be on long-term disability for at least six months. In Spinnet Technologies, the leads approved the paychecks, which meant they had to have access to the company's financial records and software. It was the perfect back door to discreetly check out the sources of David Cashel's paychecks. Like most companies, Dynamic Spinworks offered VIPs stocks, bonds, and other compensations in addition to the normal 'liquid' paycheck of cash in the bank. It wouldn't be easy to trace and verify all of Cashel's income streams as legitimate or not.

Nobody could argue that JD would be the perfect man to trace all of the computer files and bank records on this case. The problem was that no one would believe JD had the experience required of an engineering lead in a fairly technical area. But luck continued to be with them: after a talk with Spinnet Technologies, backed up by VIP of Corporate Security of the parent company, they discovered that the heat-stress team was fairly self-sufficient. They had to be, being a five-man team, including the lead, and somewhat of a red-headed stepchild group within the company. That meant that the lead took on a lot of work, but if the undercover agent could keep up team communications, the company head was fairly certain that the rest of the team could take care of the slack while the real team lead recovered from his broken hip. Engineering reports could be signed off by the counterpart group in Dynamic Spinworks, while the undercover agent maintained the administrative order at Spinnet and kept the paychecks signed in addition to snooping through files.

Which still left the problem of who, exactly, would be the undercover agent. Team 7 was working research for other cases, so had the time, and JD would probably end up tracing some of the financial statements anyway, so it made sense for Team 7 to be the one to send someone in. Chris turned out to have the best background for the job. He was, after all, excellent at managing disparate, quirky, and occasionally quite prickly, personalities; he was used to budgeting and running projects, running financial reports, and a myriad of other things administrative leads had to do, courtesy of his position as SAC of Team 7. He also, though he rarely discussed it, had a Bachelor's Degree in accounting, courtesy of his father, who had wanted him to take over the family farm. Chris could slip into the job of team lead quickly, sort through the financial files easily, and would still have time to work some of his normal administrative duties at the Federal Building. 

In short, the undercover operation was supposed to have all the excitement and drama of a chess game.

And then some idiot had decided Spinnet Technologies was a good place to lose his sanity and take a few people with him. What a cluster.

Vin scanned the building's glass walls obsessively looking for a shot, a signal, anything.

"Everyone out?" Came over the earbud.

"Some people trapped in cubicles downstairs, afraid to come out. Shooter's upstairs now, but reports of at least 2 other people up there. At least one ambulance needed that they're sure of."

Chris would have contacted the team if he'd been able to. Chris was inside, his temporary office was upstairs. Vin hoped he wasn't the one they needed the ambulance for. Probably not. He needed to let Chris know he was there already. He was scanning the cubicle farm again when he caught sight of the toys on the cube walls. Hadn't Chris mentioned one of his team had those Transformer figurines all over the place? Yes, there they were. Now, where was Chris? 

Patiently, he scanned the cubicles. Finally, he caught sight of Larabee, scuttling from aisle to aisle, playing cat and mouse with the shooter. He took a chance, and turned on the laser on his scope site, bouncing it off the cubicle fabric wall next to Chris's head. As he'd hoped, Chris put his hand over the red dot, a clear sign he knew Vin was there. Vin turned off the laser. 

"Tanner here," he reported, "Larabee knows I'm eyes on."

"Roger that."

Vin watched Chris tip over one of the toys near the back of the room, trying to lure the shooter his way. 

"Eyes on the shooter yet?"

"No. Chris is trying to bring him out into the open now."

Under his breath, he muttered, "Come on, come on, Chris, I need him where I can see him." But the man, whoever he was, refused to help. Long seconds passed as Chris continued to sneak around, reacting to sounds Vin couldn't hear. Vin continued to scan, hoping for that one slip up, that one moment where he could fire his shot. Who would have thought a glass building could provide so many damned hiding places?

Movement. Chris abruptly standing up at full height, making a beeline for the front of the room. "What the hell?" Vin hurriedly moved his viewfinder to the front of the building. There was the shooter, holding a gun to a heavy-set woman who was bloody and half-naked from the waist up. She stood stock still, eyes glued to Chris as he made his way up the aisle.

"Visual on the shooter! He's got a hostage. Chris is trying to get her loose."

"Do you have the shot?"

"No, no, not yet, not without shooting the hostage."

Quiet cursing over the earbud.

"Vin, your call."

"No shot." He'd give Chris a bit to see what he could do. But all that blood - the lady might not have much of a chance anyway.


	5. the job at hand

Chris was right about the blood painting a path toward the girls. The shooter had followed it right to Kelli's cubicle, yanked Mags up off the floor, and now was holding a pistol to her head. Mags' face was pinched in pain - her knees, thought Chris. She had them locked in order to stand, but was wobbling anyway, and Chris doubted that the joints would hold for long.  Now as he faced the shooter, he wished he'd been able to find a weapon of any sort in the office.  He'd finally decided to snag a mirror, hoping to create a distraction with it.  He had to separate Mags from the perp for Vin to make the shot.  

 

"Let the lady go,", he said coolly to the man holding Mags.  "You've already shot up the place.  Don't make it worse by shooting up the people, too." 

 

The man snorted.  He was not tall, being only five feet ten.  But he had the solidly beefy arms of a guy who worked at the factories all day long.  His short-cut black hair, greying at the temples, topped a face with high cheekbones, straight nose, and strong jaw.  His green eyes glared at Chris's hazel ones.

 

"Can't make it any worse.  Might as well make it real," he said.

 

"I'm not sure it gets any more real than this," Chris replied.  He angled a little bit to try and hide his fiddling with the mirror.  He was not a hostage negotiator, but any attempt to buy more time, to get Mags safe, was better than none.  "Tell you what - we've still got plenty of phone lines open.  You let Mags go, tell me what you want, and I'll do my best to see you get what you want."

 

"Oh for chrissakes', Chris, kill the son of a bitch!"  Mags growled.  She was glaring at Chris, her own hazel eyes filled with frustration and anger.  "Don't you _dare_ pay the Danegeld!"

 

 _Not helping, Mags,_ he thought, even as the man growled in front of him growled, "Can't give me what I want.  Can't give me a job that's gone to Mexico.  Can't give me a wife that's divorced me, or kids that went with her.  The house the bank took. Nope, this is all I've got left."

 

Great, just great.  Chris knew depression when he heard it, knew well the beckoning call of suicide, and the urge to give up, lay down in the comfort of death.  It was hard to resist, that call, especially when you had reason, good reason, to suspect that everything was your fault, your responsibility, your fuck-up.  He knew how hard it was to stop reaching for that gun to end it all - but at least he never wanted to take anyone with him.   He caught Mags rolling her eyes - Mags had confided she was a clinical depressive, dependent on medication to keep her functioning, and help her resist the siren song of death.  But Mags, like him, would never consider taking someone with her.  "The whole point is removing yourself from their misery," she'd once said during a lazy Saturday he'd spent helping her reset her mailbox.  "So my suicide fantasies never included things like suicide-by-cop or strapping a bomb to my chest at a social event.  It may have gotten the 'no-pain' part right, but it would cause misery, not relieve it."  Mags wouldn't have any sympathy for this guy, even if she wasn't particularly concerned about making it out alive herself.

 

 _Tough shit, Mags, you've got a bit more living to do!_ She met his eyes.  He wasn't sure what she read there, but she very deliberately tapped one finger against her thigh and looked down, then up again.  He frowned, but shifted his grip on the mirror to throw it even as she counted down from three.

 

At zero, she collapsed, letting her entire weight fall limply onto the arm the shooter held her with. 

 

"Wha-?"  The man stumbled, trying to counteract the sudden shift in balance.  Chris threw the mirror at him and like it was scripted, the guy raised his eyes to his face to protect it.  He couldn't protect himself from Vin's shot.  Chris watched the red flowering on the perp's forehead in smug satisfaction.  He turned and flashed a thumb's-up out the window before he jumped forward to check on Mags.  And Kelli.

 

"You okay, Mags?"

 

"My knees hurt," she muttered and sighed.  "Check on Kelli for me?"

 

"Yeah," he replied.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Mag7:ATF~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The moment Vin reported "Shooter down," the place erupted in chaos.  Paramedics and police swarmed the building, looking for trapped and injured employees.  Mags sighed as she watched the swirl of humanity around her from her stretcher bed.  This was gonna suck, big time.  And therapy even worse.  "How long will I be in the hospital, you think?" she asked the EMT taking off the blood pressure cuff.

 

"You shouldn't worry about that now," he said, "Just concentrate on getting better."

 

"I have to worry about it - I've got a dog at home."

 

"You've got someone to call about him?  I mean, hate to say it, but your knees are..."

 

"Non-compos mentis?  Or whatever the term for completely schnookered knees is."

 

The EMT laughed, "Yeah.  I'm afraid you're looking at a lot of therapy before you're ready to be on your own.  You got anyone you want us to contact, help you out?"

 

"I..., uh...,"  Mags felt completely lost.  She doubted anyone from work would come help her - it just wasn't a thing, really.  At least it didn't seem to be.  Family was far away.  She'd have to get an in-home nurse or something - could she even afford that?  It seemed so silly, since _she_ wasn't out of her head, just her knees....

 

"Don't worry Zack, I've got this."

 

Mags looked up in surprise.  She'd known Chris was not a normal engineer - he made an attempt to get to know people outside of work, for one thing.  And didn't talk to his shoes, or anybody else's, either.  And there were too many things that just didn't add up.  He was their temporary lead, but he didn't have any engineering experience.  She might not have thought much about that, but the higher-ups hadn't done a temporary transfer from within; they'd gotten him from outside the company.  That was definitely not normal for a situation like this, where their normal lead had a long-term healing to work through, but would be back.  Maybe if it had been permanent, but then they'd have looked for an engineer with heat-stress experience, or promoted Jim or Luke.  And then there'd been that private conference with one of the big-wigs from their parent company.  All little things, maybe even unrelated. 

 

But her gut told her it meant Chris wasn't there for being her lead, which meant he'd be leaving as soon as he got whatever he was there for.  Bill Gentry, their real lead, was almost recovered from his farm accident - at least enough get to work and back.  When she saw him socializing pretty comfortably with some men wearing police uniforms, she figured this little cluster was as good a reason as any for Chris to quietly exit stage left to go back to his real job.  The moment she saw his newly-acquired jacket, all that flew out her head.

 

"What the hell are you thinking, working for the Batshit Insane?!"

 

Chris covered his face with a hand to hide a laugh.  He couldn't help it - Mags had the oddest ability to say the most tactless thing possible at just the wrong time.  "It's a long story," he said.  He turned to the EMT.  "Let me talk to her for a minute before you take her away." 

 

"I'll take care of Flora, don't worry, Mags." 

 

She nodded and handed him her purse.  "Wait - give me the wallet.  It's probably in the bottom somewhere."

 

"Of course," he said as he fished it out and handed it her, along with her cell phone.  "Where's the charger?"

 

"At home," she looked embarrassed.  "I don't use it a lot anyway, so it runs down a lot.  Hate the phone."

 

"Mmm-hmm.  I'll grab it and bring it to you at the hospital. You'll want some way to get in touch with people that doesn't involve paying through the nose for a local call."

 

"Thanks."  She hesitated.  "Kelli?"

 

"I'm sorry,"  Chris said softly.  "She didn't make it."

 

"Dammit."  Mags ran her right, still covered in blood, over her head, then brought both hands up front of her.   " 'They look like big, strong, hands, don't they?'," she said softly. " 'I always thought that's what they were.' "

 

"It's not your fault," Chris said,  gently laying one of his own hands on her shoulder.

 

"I know," she sighed. "He got Brett and Liza at the front, too, didn't he?  I saw the body bags across the way."  Chris nodded.  "Crap."

 

Zack the EMT came back just then.  "We really got to go, Chris.  Mags here isn't the only one who needs us.  Ready, Mags?"

 

"Yeah - I'll - I'll see you later at the hospital, Chris?"

 

"Yeah, I promise, Mags.  I'll be by as soon as I check on Flora."  He watched as the EMTs finished loading Mags and started the bus out of the parking lot.

 

Chris suddenly felt exhausted, and depressed.  Kelli had been just a kid, too young by far.  _They_ are _big strong hands, Mags,_ he thought.  _But even Rock-Biters can't hold against the Nothing.  What a cluster._

 

"Chris?"  Vin came up behind him. 

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Cops are ready for you to sign your statement.  Then we need to get going on our own reports."

 

"Yeah."

 

 

_finis_

 


End file.
